


With The Winter Winds

by redpantsandjam (fullonzombae)



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, I, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Scars, not s3 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 03:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2334197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullonzombae/pseuds/redpantsandjam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns to Baker Street, but even now, he still has secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With The Winter Winds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iwillusethemutebutton](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=iwillusethemutebutton).



> This work is a gift for tumblr user iwillusethemutebutton. It's loosely based on our roleplay, Lego House.

There were times, it seemed, that Sherlock Holmes had never returned.

Some days, John noted, his body would lie on the sofa. Motionless. Silent. A corpse. During these days, John would find himself stopping as he walked past, ensuring that Sherlock’s chest still rose and fell with the tell-tale signs of life he wouldn’t find anywhere else.

 

_He’d returned with the bitter north east wind, the chills of November nipping at his heels. Bloodied and wounded, he’d managed to find John’s flat, haunted by his brother’s words._

_“He’s moved on, Sherlock.”_  

 

Today, John found him staring out of the window, his violin raised, posed as if he were ready to play.  But no movement came, and Sherlock remained, almost trance-like, as the minutes passed. Eventually, the violin dropped to hang by his side, his head bowed, and John was certain his presence had gone unnoticed. 

 

_Rage. Before John had noticed the injury came the rage, his left fist connecting with Sherlock’s cheek, an angry sob before his hand came to grasp his own brow. And yet, all Sherlock could do was stare at him, as if he was trying to piece together the pieces of a puzzle._

_“Mycroft lied.”_  

 

Three a.m., and as John rolled over, he found Sherlock’s side of the bed empty. Reaching for the lamp, he sat up as the light filled the room, dragging a hand over his face. Slipping out of bed, he walked through to the living room, finding Sherlock staring out of the window once more. It was almost as if he was keeping watch for a hidden danger. 

“Sherlock? You coming back to bed?” John fastened his dressing gown, folding his arms over his chest as he awaited an answer. It came with the mere shaking of Sherlock’s head, and John wondered why he’d expected anything else.

 

_“What?”_

_“Mycroft lied.”_

_John stared at Sherlock in confusion as that familiar, deductive expression descended over Sherlock’s features._

_“About what?”_

_A hand was waved in John’s direction, Sherlock’s mouth opening once or twice, before he suddenly launched into his monologue, leaving John standing with a look of confusion in the middle of the living room._

_“Two mugs on the side. Except the dregs from the one on the right hand side are approximately eight hours older; you made yourself a mug of tea before work, and then one… what, twenty-five minutes ago? Still making tea for one, then. Typhoo. Not your choice of tea. So you had Harry get in the shopping last week. Sofa. Someone was sat there yesterday,” he continued, pointing to the corner of the sofa. “Not that they’re a regular visitor. The sofa’s not new – it sags far too much on your side. Yet barely any indent on the other side. Newspapers. Still your usual choice. Nothing to suggest a new reader, and there’s no other media that would suggest someone else had moved in. In fact, judging by the washing up pile, you’ve not had company for the past… three nights at least. So, if there is anyone… It’s not serious, and most certainly…”_

_“What the hell,” John interjected, raising a hand to silence him, “are you on about?”_

 

It was 10:32am on a Friday when John finally pieced the puzzle together. It had come with the clattering of a plate, and the way that Sherlock had been dragged out of his thoughts.  As Sherlock’s body tensed, his entire body jerking in reaction to the crashing of crockery, John watched in silence. He’d seen this a hundred times before; veterans of the British Army. Traumatised. Always given the same diagnosis. It was one he’d received just five years beforehand.

But there were pieces of the puzzle he knew he’d missed. The weight loss. The way Sherlock seemed even more repulsed by intimacy than before, finding every reason to turn down sex, every reason to avoid John seeing him naked, or denying John any chance for skin to skin contact. And as he stared at Sherlock, watching his chest heave and his fists clench by his side, John could see just what would come next. Fight or flight. And he knew, before Sherlock began to reach for his coat, that flight would win.

“Sherlock. Wait…” Too little, too late, he noted, as he was greeted with the slamming of the door.

 

_“Mycroft. He said you were married. He… uhm… He told me you’d moved on.”_

_Sherlock’s gaze was now firmly fixed on the floor, his breathing laboured as he prepared for the possibility of John correcting him. Could he have moved on after all? Only spent time at her place? The possibilities rumbled through his mind, until he heard John speak._

_“So you came back to find out if it was true? Not to offer some half-hearted apology, or put things right. You just couldn’t bear not knowing.” His voice was dripping with venom. “You must have thought you were so clever, playing this stupid fucking game.”_

_Silence filled the flat, John awaiting an answer that seemed to have eluded Sherlock entirely. Closing his eyes, his thoughts turned to the whiskey he kept in the cupboard. If he were to open that now, he knew he wouldn’t stop at one glass, or even two, three, four…_

 

Eight days after he’d fled, Sherlock returned. As John stared at the shadow in the doorway, he knew where he’d been.

“Well, you’ve seen better days,” he started, a feeling of pity washing over him as he finally stepped closer. Sherlock’s hair was matted, thick with dirt, and John found himself wondering just how he’d ended up in this mess. The expression on Sherlock’s face was almost vacant, were it not for the hint of sadness that accompanied his inability to meet John’s gaze. “Come on. We’ll get you cleaned up.”

He no longer saw the point in fighting, and as he felt John’s hand on the small of his back, Sherlock hesitantly followed his lead to the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the bath, he stared blankly at the door as John fetched towels and pyjamas, the water in the tub slowly filling.

“I’m sorry, John.”

The words fell from his lips so quietly that, for a moment, John feared he was beginning to hear things that had never been said. Looking up at the crumpled form that had once been Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, John sighed and reached out to squeeze his hand.

“Come on. Let’s get you bathed, hm?”

He watched the tremor in Sherlock’s hands as he began to undress himself, wondering if it was withdrawal that caused such a reaction, or just nerves. As Sherlock’s shirt fell to the floor, John stared at the criss-cross of scars that covered Sherlock’s torso. John had known they were there; he wasn’t stupid. But he still found himself entranced by the sheer volume, his only reassurance coming in Sherlock’s promises that he had done what needed to be done.

_“This was…” Sherlock swayed as he struggled to regain control of the situation, of John’s words. He knew he’d no longer be able to hand out his orders and have John obey, and despite how h wanted to take John into his arms and beg forgiveness, he knew this would take time._

_“This was never a game,” he whispered, before sinking into the armchair and burying his face in his hands. “It wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a game. It wasn’t…”_

_As Sherlock’s babbling turned incoherent, John crossed the living room, crouching in front of him. “Sherl… Sherlock…” He tried to think of a time he’d seen Sherlock even half as broken as he was now, tried to recall a time he had even seen Sherlock cry. Caressing Sherlock’s wrist with his thumb, he sighed, resting his forehead on Sherlock’s lap.  “Come on. We’ll…” We’ll what? Be fine? Such promises were out of his reach. “We’ll find a way through this.”_

“I’ll order in a curry in a bit.”

Pouring water over Sherlock’s scalp, John found himself counting the scars that trailed down his back. A muffled grunt came from Sherlock’s knees, something John could only decode as a protest.

“You’re eating Sherlock, whether you like it or not.”

As he wet the flannel, John paused, watching the scars as he tried to digest just what had happened to Sherlock.

“He would have killed you instead.” 

John froze, water dripping from the flannel as he stared at Sherlock, swallowing slightly. He didn’t need to ask. It was clear just who Sherlock meant, and yet somehow, it was a thought that had never crossed his mind. He had recounted every possible theory over the past two years, yet never had he considered that he may have been involved in Sherlock’s downfall.

“Three gunmen, three targets… I had to do it… I had to…”  

“Sherl, it’s OK.” Reaching out, he placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “You don’t… Look. If you don’t want to talk about this.” He was greeted with a shaking of Sherlock’s head, before he continued.

“He intended to destroy me, and when I thought I had a way out, he told me of his plans. Were I not to jump, he would have you, Greg and Mrs Hudson killed. It was, a simple enough decision.”

John’s left hand clenched, trying to fight back the memories of that day as he listened on.

“It had been my intention to track down and destroy his web from the beginning. However, the decision to deceive you was one that came at the last minute when it was clear that Moriarty’s aim, was made clear. I…” He paused, his voice cracking with the threat of tears. Clearing his throat, he straightened his back, a weak attempt to compose himself. “You want to ask about the scars, don’t you? I’ve noticed how much more gentle your touch is there.”

“You can’t blame me for…”

“I wasn’t blaming you for anything. Pass me the towel.”

* * *

“Seoul”

“What?” John stilled his hand as it traced over one of the scars along Sherlock’s abdomen.

“Seoul. That’s where I earned that.” He gestured down to the scar beneath John’s fingertips, closing his eyes. “I’d… erm… I went back to the drugs after I killed the fifth person. The first three I found easiest to justify. It became routine. I’d kill someone, then get higher than I’d ever been before in an attempt to forget what I’d done. Except, in Seoul, I was careless… I got caught.”

John slowly traced his fingers down to another scar, watching Sherlock for any signs of discomfort.

“Prague. Just a run in with an attempted murderer. It’s not as bad as it looks.” He stopped as John’s fingers reached another scar, one that crossed another that curled along his back. The ones that held the worst memories.

“Serbia.”

Beneath his fingertips, John could feel how Sherlock tensed, and for a moment he feared Sherlock would run once more.

“They had me for six weeks,” Sherlock continued, unable to bring himself to look at John. He didn’t want to see the shame that would cloud John’s features, the disappointment that Sherlock hadn’t been brilliant enough to save him. “I tried to count the lashes, but after the first hundred, I lost count. The stabs, I never cared enough to count. I became their entertainment, their outlet for frustration, their pleasure receptacle.” He shuddered at the last word, silently awaiting John’s disgust as he caught on to just what those words meant. Instead, he felt John’s fingers combing through his hair, tugging him closer. “Obviously, I killed them. Eventually. When I managed to… When Mycroft eventually freed me.”

“But you’re safe now,” John whispered, stroking a finger down Sherlock’s cheek. “And you’re back here. We’ll get through this.”

And as he let sleep wash over him, for the first time since his return, Sherlock truly believed it.


End file.
